Aftermath
by Jayce Gish
Summary: This is not the shiny fun version of what possibly happens to Rick after "Countdown". I went dark. Starts just as Josh appears and Castle exits. Updated & will eventually go thru Johanna Beckett's Fund Raiser.  Gets a bit lighter as it progresses  Review?
1. Chapter 1  Facing the Truth

**This is my very negative take following Countdown. You have been warned. Go ahead and review, even if it means you want to flame me if you wish after reading it - just remember that I carry a scalpel and I can dismember a body (lots of practice). Not sure why I am compelled to write something so depressing, but here it is (I think I need a new job!). With "Firefly" debuting tonight on Discovery Science, I should be happy; but this has been tugging at my word processor for several days, so here. (Maybe I just want to commiserate with poor Richard Castle; he looked so helpless in that elevator after Josh turned up and Kate, that hussy, hugged the wrong man; Andrew tweeted that there IS a Master Plan, but does Rick Castle need to suffer the same amount of pain and trials as Job before the poor man can find happiness in love? Or, is he doomed to experience my own poor relationship history?)**

**Characters are borrowed; I don't own them (except for DVDs of Seasons I and II, and I got the 2nd Season DVD free courtesy of ABC for attending the Jimmy Kimmel taping that Nathan guested on); I don't have enough money for a lawsuit by ABC to provide any monetary benefit (I'm not that kind of doctor; I don't perform plastic surgery in Beverly Hills). Besides, Andrew W. Marlowe will lie on my behalf and state under oath that I had permission to play in the Castle sandbox for as long as it took me to write this (and, I'll hand wash his cars for the next 20 years as payback).**

**-JG**

"Aftermath"

Castle focused all of his concentration on his sense of sight, narrowing all of his thoughts to that one sense, determined to limit his field of vision to no more than five inches directly in front of him, somehow knowing that if he looked back at her, no, back at _them_, he would loose whatever false dignity he was trying in vain to display. The man was broken, emanating a hurt unlike any which he had ever experienced in his nearly forty years of life. Calling on all of the DNA-based acting experience contained in his genes as provided by the generations of circus folks and charlatans in his family tree before him (what little he knew of them), he was determined not to display what he was feeling: an intense deep hurt like no other that was threatening to rip his heart from his chest as wave after wave of grief washed over him.

Even as he now stood waiting for the elevator barely able to breathe, with his back toward the couple, his mind still pictured them contained in their mutual embrace. An embrace that he knew should have been him and Kate, their arms tightly wrapped around one another, together through all eternity, for "forever" as he had so often promised her, but that wasn't to be. And as his mind forced himself to recognize that it wasn't him holding Kate protectively in his arms, Castle knew only how badly he needed to leave the 12th Precinct. Right that moment. And, as quickly as possible.

The man could feel his body physically shutting down. His hands grew heavy at his sides, his neck was tired, his stomach hurt, and his feet were becoming more and more unwilling to obey his commands. Shortly, he would be unable to walk, to hold himself upright, and Kate couldn't be allowed to witness that. No one in the precinct could be allowed to watch him self destruct. In an act of self-preservation, the only thought in his mind, the only action his brain was presently capable of commanding his body to successfully perform, was for him to distance himself from the one woman he truly loved.

The walk down the hallway to the elevator was longer than he remembered it ever having previously taken, but even with his head down, refusing eye contract with any of his coworkers, he was determined not look back at her, knowing that if he did, the tears starting to form in his eyes would be evident to all. In less than thirty seconds, his entire world, a world in which he had always been the chosen one, the golden boy, the handsome and famous celebrity writer, the center of the attention and the man who could no wrong that couldn't be dismissed, had been shattered.

His heart was screaming at him to turn his head just once, to see if he had been mistaken, that his love had realized her mistake and was now running to him, ready to beg forgiveness of her foolishness, and for him to welcome her into his arms and take her away from this life as she openly declared her love for him, but that was the one action his brain knew it couldn't allow his body to perform. What if his heart had it all wrong, for he couldn't bear to look at Detective Kate Beckett, his Kate, allowing herself to being held tightly in the arms of her boyfriend, Cardiac Surgeon Josh Davidson, the tall, handsome, leather-clad Doctor Motorcycle Boy, as he took time out from saving the world to openly declare his love for his Kate.

Castle had been beaten. Maybe by only fifteen seconds, but as soon as Castle had seen Josh in the precinct walking toward where he and Kate were talking, Rick has recognized that it was over. That he had lost.

Richard Castle's entire comfortable existence had, within seconds, come crashing down around him. He had made his decision based on what he had put himself through these past three years. These past three years with Detective Kate Beckett, in which he had started by following her around like a lost puppy begging for acceptance, and which had eventually morphed into an equal partnership with the beautiful and intelligent woman, and which, he now freely admitted to himself, were the richest years of his life. After what Kate and Rick had both experienced in the past days, he was going to bare his soul to her and confess to Kate how much he was in love with her, and that he wanted her in his life for the remainder of his life, and that he would willingly agree to whatever terms and conditions she wanted to impose on him, if only she would give him a chance to prove to her how much he truly loved her. He was ready to demonstrate what "always" actually meant; it was their code word, and he was ready to do anything she asked of him or wanted him to prove to her that he was ready to commit both his mind and body to her and to her alone. Castle knew that he didn't want to wait any longer, that they had waited enough, and that it was time that the games were set aside and they admitted their feelings for one another. And, then, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Josh approaching.

Castle couldn't remember what weak excuse he had offered the woman to allow him to perform a somewhat graceful exit, but his Kate had turned to Josh as soon as she realized that he was standing next to her, and she had accepted, if not invited, his embrace. She had said something earlier about how she and Josh "had a chance", but the "they" statement did not include Richard Castle.

So Castle did what he had done so many times before in the past when the world wasn't performing to his exact specifications.

He turned and ran.

The elevator finally arrived and granted him entrance as the car's sole occupant. Only then did he turn his body to face the bullpen. Keeping his line of sight on nothing (but actually on everything but the couple in the hall), he willed the doors to close before he lost whatever small amount of dignity he might still be able to radiate, but the doors remained open for what appeared to Castle to be a lifetime. He knew that the facade of confidence that he had displayed to Kate was shattering and there was nothing he could do to halt it. The illusion had been shattered. When he had decided to openly declare his feelings of love to the woman he was ready to share the rest of his life with, her silent rejection of him was a cruel blow. She had not needed to say a word: indeed, he couldn't recall her making a sound. It was understood by her actions that Castle was not her choice. He should have been holding his Kate, his detective, in that embrace, not observing her with another man from across the room, unwilling or unable to say something in his own defense.

He might have actually said "good night" to Kate Beckett. A phrase that he had prided himself on never using. "Just too sad," he had previous remarked about those words, "those words provide no hopefulness for the next day, no hint of the marvelous things that could accompany the next sunrise. . ."

For the first time in his life, Richard Castle couldn't care less about the next hour, let alone the next day. If he was able to face another truth, he would tell you that he dreaded the next sunrise. He would not be with her; she would be with another man that night, and for every other night. After today, he would never be with her again.

He felt another wave of pain course through his body. It caused him to grab onto the railing in the elevator so as not to call out to her. Kate had made her choice, and it had not been him. Even his eyes refused to obey his command to close.

Rick was retreating into himself as quickly as he knew how to. He just wanted for those damn doors to close so he could let his tears fall, allow himself to scream in defeat, and fall prey to the wave after wave of hurt that was threatening to end his ability to breathe. He needed to be away from the crowd of people in the station that he considered to be his friends, those whom he had considered to be his coworkers, and who knew him as a rich and privileged playboy who was impervious to pain.

Finally, the elevator doors started to close. As he felt his control vanishing, Castle knew that he could no long continue playing pseudo policeman under the guise of "research". That excuse had been proven false for the past several months. As his actress mother would have observed, the curtain was falling on his third act, and there would be no encore, no additional bows, no further applause, and most certainly no standing ovation. The stage had just revealed itself to be bare, and the audience had gone home. Ironically, Richard Castle had run out of lines. The writer Richard Edgar Castle had been unable to form his own cohesive thoughts, and now through a lack of words, had been eliminated from contention.

Once again, Richard Castle was finding himself alone. He was without the woman he had fallen so completely in love with, the woman who he only recently had admitted to himself that he wanted to have at his side for the rest of his life. Now that the elevator doors were shutting, his brain had no need to maintain the false bravado and the smile that had taken such an effort to show to the world. As Castle retreated to his own solitary confinement, it was no longer necessary for his being to expend the energy to merely appear tired as his body reluctantly admitted defeat. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes now displayed a hollow, shattered soul.

Castle had not realized that his face had reflected his sorrow and hurt before the doors had completely closed. There had been just enough time so Kate, standing with her arms around her boyfriend yet with her head turned so that her eyes focused on Castle's retreating figure, was able to see in his eyes the bottomless hurt that he was experiencing from across the room. The hurt that she realized she was the cause of. What had he really intended to say to her?

As the elevators doors had mercifully closed on Castle, Kate Beckett watched as her partner had jerkingly shifted his position, his arms just managing to hold his body up as his fingers clutched at the elevator's hand rails, his legs crossed at the ankles, his chin down, his shoulders rounded, and the tears had been visible forming in his eyes, the man incapable of stopping them.

Castle forced his eyes closed after the doors had shut and the descent started. His brain had completed its assignment and was allowing itself to shut down, as if that would lessen the man's agony. At this moment, the only thought that Castle's usually active mind had was to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and Kate Beckett. No matter if that wasn't theoretically a possibility nor a logical course of action it was what he felt he had no choice but to do.

Upon reaching the lobby, his long legs covered the distance from the elevators to the front door of the 12th precinct in record time, and racing out to the sidewalk, he was able to immediately flag down a cab and step inside.

He acted as a man possessed. He quickly gave his Soho Broome Street address to the cabbie, and sunk into the back seat of the vehicle.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Castle didn't look back. It would have been too much of an effort. It was easier to just face forward and keep his eyes closed through the entire cab ride. That also served to eliminated the chance that he would spot a familiar place where he and Beckett had created memories, memories that he didn't want to be reminded of or ever experience again. Just hours before, he and Kate had saved their City. To now look at what they had achieved was just too painful for the man to experience.

In less than fifteen minutes, Castle entered his loft. He paused as he opened the door.

"Hello?"

He waited for a moment; there was no response. Apparently, both his daughter and his mother were not yet home; if they had been, the noise level from the two women as directed toward him would have been intense. He realized that they were still driving back from the Hamptons, from where Castle had sent them in an attempt to protect his family from what he had simply described as "an event". He had done all he could have done to make them as safe as possible. He was willing to take a risk, especially with Kate at his side, but he had been determined to send his own family away. They had begged him to come with them and leave the City, but he had refused. As he looked at his mother, he could read her expression that she knew he wasn't in it just for the books any more.

Castle paused. Kate was no longer "family", she was no longer in the same classification, and that observation brought back the hurt. It could be several hours before his mother and daughter returned to the home that the three of them shared. And, for those hours, Castle knew that he would be alone with his thoughts, with all of his personal demons on full display.

Rick didn't bother to take off his sports jacket as he walked into the kitchen and took a glass from the cupboard and a bottle of 50 year old scotch from the liquor cabinet. He knew himself well enough to realize that he needed to have a stiff drink or two, and eventually convince himself to put on his game face before he was reunited with his girls. The alcohol might help.

It should have been "his" three girls that he surrounded himself with; now, there would only be two, not three. And he felt a tear fall from his eye as he realized that fact.

Wiping the teat away with the back of his hand, Castle walked into his office, firmly shutting but not locking the door behind him. Not that either Martha or Alexis completely respected his privacy, but at least Alexis would knock before entering his work area, since he had never previously refused her admission, even if he was writing. He may not recall the conversation later, but he made sure that she had always known that she was always welcome into his life at any time she needed him. Hell, she was his life. His mother was another story, but the closed door would perhaps allow him an extra moment or two to present a happier face to his family on their return. His family of "two".

Richard Castle thought about sending a text to his daughter. How should he word it, "City is safe, you can come home, I love you, I'm sorry I made you leave without me, but don't disturb me for the next month while I hide in my office drowning my sorrow"?

The man sat at his desk and poured himself a generous stiff drink. He downed it in three quick gulps and then poured himself a second glass. At this point, he paused as his hand automatically raised the glass to his lips. Did he really want to get drunk, knowing that it would take most of the bottle to achieve that end, or did he simply want to avoid the world for just a while longer?

As he thought about this existential choice, the man emptied the second scotch down his throat in one neat motion. He enjoyed the burning sensation as it smoothly fell down his throat. Rick realized that there was nothing positive in drinking himself into a stupor at this hour, but having his brain encased in numbing alcohol seemed more desirable than living with the hurt he was presently experiencing.

He poured a smaller third drink and then sat back in his chair, his feet on his desk. His laptop remained closed on his desk, and the radio was off, as were the lights. If no one looked too hard, he appeared to be writing and might possibly remain undisturbed for several hours.

Richard Castle had spent years being dishonest with himself. He had bought into his own publicity, that he was the carefree playboy about town, the famous writer with the golden touch, rich beyond measure, and without any cares or any responsibilities. Only in the past three years had been honest enough with himself to face the truth. With the exception of the monetary wealth, he knew that he was none of those above selections. He knew that, for perhaps only the second time in his life, that he had lost. As he brought that third drink to his lips, he knew that there would be only one thought echoing through his mind for the next several hours. Kate Beckett. And, he further knew that no amount of alcohol was capable of driving that woman from his mind.

He had risked all. He had fallen in love with her. Hell with his safety nets, with his rules of never becoming involved. He has lost his heart to Katherine Beckett. He had given his love freely, without any thought of failure. Wasn't he Richard Castle, the man who got everything he wanted? But, as he realized this day, she hadn't returned his love.

Maybe it was nothing but a lie, that phrase, "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." What a stupid sentence. Pure trash. He would have been better off if he maintained his pattern of one night stands, the meaningless sex with strangers, the sneaking out in the middle of the night. Heck, he and Kate had never even "done the deed", merely a kiss or two and a few hugs; how sad was that, Mr. Playboy? His former way was safer; it included sex, lots of sex, and didn't end with this immeasurable hurt.

He glanced to the small framed photo on the side table. It contained a picture of a five year old Alexis Castle, wearing her sailor dress, posed on a foot path in Central Park, her long bright red hair on prominent display as it was caught in the sunlight.

Castle looked at the photo. His little girl was no longer so little, and she was about to apply to colleges. He had been in fear of her leaving him for the last few years, and now he was running out of borrowed time. Where had she talked about attending? Yale was in New Haven, only a few hours away by car. Harvard was a little more than two hours further away by car, but he could always fly up to Boston, so he could consider that school to be the same travel time. He didn't want her across the U.S. at Stanford, and he doubted she would want to major in surfing at any school in California, not to mention the fact that they were too close to Meredith, her less than stable mother. Clearly, NYU would be the best choice in so far as Castle was concerned, and maybe his Alexis would agree to remain at home for a semester or two while she started her college experience.

His thoughts clouded. He wasn't sure if it was due to too much scotch or not enough. Alexis had mentioned Oxford on more than once occasion. He had visibly panicked at the thought of her leaving him to attend school in England. England was not a convenient drive, could not be reached by Amtrack, and entailed passports and planes. However, considering the events of the past hour, Castle found himself being more and more attracted to that choice. It could be a new start for the both of them, for both Alexis and himself. He could relocate to London. There was nothing now to stop him from doing so. It may not be easy, but it could be done. Didn't he already have a passport? Heck, he could write anywhere as long as he could conduct his research and had access to a computer. His mother could stay in his loft in New York, or accompany them across the pond and perhaps try for a new acting career on London's West End. That would allow Alexis a degree of independence, but still allow Castle to keep his little girl near him.

Castle kept thinking about the possibilities. He never liked to call attention to the wealth he had accumulated from his writing, but he had more than enough money to never need to work again for the rest of his life. He even doubted that his daughter would be able to spend it all in her entire lifetime (okay, his mother was a different story; she would definitely make a big dent in it, but there was enough for Alexis' children, his grandchildren, to live their lives as they chose). He could buy a bachelor apartment in London, or a larger flat to share with his mother, much as they lived now, and then purchase a smaller flat in Oxford for his daughter. It was all they would need for the next four years.

Castle felt another tug at his heart. That would four years without Beckett. Four years without Montgomery, without Esposito, without Ryan, without Lanie. Would they miss him? Would they even realize that he was gone? Castle knew that, out of the entire group, he was only concerned with Beckett, and that he already knew the answer. No, she had made her decision earlier that day. Richard Castle had already been replaced. And by a man who didn't know about her home murder board, about how she lost her mother, and probably didn't know about her love for strawberry milkshakes from Remy's, their favorite burger place just down the street from the 12th. Would she perform magic tricks for him, the way she materialized flowers for him? Hell, did he even know about her mother's ring, or the story behind why she wore her father's watch, the same watch that Castle had repaired for her after the explosion of her apartment?

Maybe the whole relationship had been a lie. Maybe he wasn't even up to being considered as her "plucky sidekick".

Castle felt another tear fall from his eyes. Hadn't she told him that she wanted him by her side when she solved her mother's murder? Now, that would never happen. Some "_always_".

Castle did a quick computation of the time change between New York and London. It was shortly before 5 PM in England. He turned on his laptop and logged in. There had to be some information on admittance procedures for Oxford on the web. Also, through his years of success in the field of writing and publishing, he knew several renown British writers. One or two of them should be able to give Alexis glowing recommendations to accompany her application to guaranty admission into Oxford. Heck, didn't Rowling owe him a favor? Maybe this was time to call in several of those markers.

The first drink, if not the second, had now reached both his stomach and his brain. Castle had found his latest cause. It would force him to concentrate all of his thoughts on his daughter, and not on his former partner.

He paused as he realized that this was his first admission that he and Beckett were past tense and not present nor future tense. He was acknowledging that it was, indeed, over.

He felt ready to starting to focus himself on concentrating his thoughts to give his daughter what she wanted. Also, it would allow his mother to make her own decision as whether to stay in New York City or accompany him to their new life where they would have to learn to drive on the opposite side of the street and become addicted to tea. After all, change is good, right? Isn't that what they say? "_Always_", change is good, right?

Most of all, it would put thousands of miles between this man and Katherine Beckett. And, maybe, that was what he needed most of all.

Richard Castle started typing information into Google. There was now perhaps no need for a fourth glass of scotch. Besides, the man knew that it wasn't capable of helping him to forget about Kate Beckett. His Kate. His lost love.

He would need to contact his agent and his publisher as soon as he finished his web surfing. He had no doubt that one of them would know of an event or of a party in the literary world where he could go that evening, either for publicity or, better yet, for both publicity and for sex. At this moment, he didn't much care.

He poured one more small drink and sipped at it as he looked through the replies listed to his inquiry. The scotch was starting to mask his pain. If he kept drinking, he might be able to make it through the next twelve hours without loosing his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**I decided to take this from a one shot to 4 chapters - Chapter 2 is now up. I hope I caught all the typos (2 days without sleep; I'm not that young anymore [I gotta get rid of that magnifying mirror!], and I'm about to turn in for the night since I need to be back at work with my scalpel by 7 AM tomorrow.) Damn it, Jim: I'm a doctor, not an aspiring author. (Okay, so that's a lie. . .) Reviews appreciated. Coffee will be even more appreciated at 5:05 AM in just a few hours. I wanted to mention that I just found several other stories with the exact same title, all recently listed. This one is not "T" rated, because I laugh too hard when I try to write sexy and then read it back out loud. Oh well, c'est la vie. This, obviously, is the one I've written. Big words (too much education), lots of commas, and hopefully proper use of quotation marks and of "their" vs. "they're" vs. "there". If you are a member of the Grammar Police, please let me know of any misuses (and also tell me how to update existing chapters, since I can't figure out how to do that by myself).**

**Hopefully, this chapter is a lot less nullistic than Chapter 1. By Chapter 4, it should almost be funny. Or, so, I'm telling myself.**

**Oh, I gave Martha Rodgers a bunch of names in this first paragraph; I don't think that the show has ever indicated exactly how many times she was married, nor the names of her former husbands. Take it with a grain of salt; the rest should be accurate. And, except for DVDs of Season I and II, and having purchased a few episodes on iTunes because my DVR burped and I lost the versions recorded directly from my cable, I don't own anything except a lot of thanks to Andrew W. Marlowe and ABC. And, the offer to wash his cars still is open. **

**Okay, I'm shutting up now.**

_AFTERMATH Chapter 2_

_CHAPTER 2 (Martha's Master Plan [in Formation])_

Martha Rodgers Peterson Lipton O'Hara Russell Rodgers was on a mission. And, as those who knew the redheaded woman would gladly testify, when Martha Rodgers was on a mission, the rest of the world needed to stand back and just let her whirl through.

It had been just over seven entire weeks since what Martha had labeled as "Castle's Siege". Richard Castle had ordered his mother and daughter to the Hamptons in late February in order for them to avoid what he would only refer to an "an event" to take place in New York City. Despite their pleading that he join them, he had refused to accompany his family, but by noon that next day he had texted Alexis that the redheads could begin the return two-hour drive that following morning, that he would send a car for them. As the pair walked into the Castle loft shortly after 1:00 PM, Alexis had been hugged within an inch of her life by her father, who was freely crying in front of them, a nearly empty bottle of 50 year old scotch that was found in his office his only companion.

Both women knew that whatever it had been, it had been big. Bigger than even they had thought. But they were thrilled with their joyous reunion with him, and they had celebrated with more Chinese takeout than a family of three could consume in a week. Through their dinner that night, Castle kept hugging both his daughter and his mother, as if he couldn't believe his good fortune in having them as a part of his life.

When Alexis went up to her room for a "more private" phone conversation with Ashley, her boyfriend, Martha waited until she heard the teenager's bedroom door close.

"Richard, what in the hell has been going on?" questioned Martha, after he willingly offered her a third glass of wine. And, it was the good stuff. The really good stuff. Richard Castle might be worth millions of dollars, but even he didn't pair a $250 bottle of red wine with $43.96 of Chinese take-out.

She clearly saw the sadness reflected in her son's deep blue eyes. He evaded her stare as he started to slowly peel the label off his bottle of beer as was his habit. "Mother, please never ask me that again. I can't tell you, and you certainly don't want to know." He looked up at her, and firmly held her free hand, the hand without the wine glass, his fingers interlaced with hers. "And, above all, neither of us would want Alexis to know."

Martha nodded that she understood the importance of his request. "Just one more inquiry, Richard? And then, I promise, I will drop this entire line of questioning."

He smiled at her, kissing the back of her hand as he raised it to his lips. "If I can answer it."

Martha put down her wine glass, and raised her other hand and held his hand between both of hers as she again stared into her son's eyes.

"Is everyone okay? Ryan, Esposito? Captain Montgomery? The doctor?"

He rapidly nodded his head, his trademark lopsided grin displayed on his face as his bangs fell onto his forehead. "They're all fine, Mother."

Only then did Martha play her trump card.

"And, Kate?"

She alone caught the momentary hurt in Richard's eyes, and noted his semi successful attempt at a quick recovery. If she hadn't had known him so well, she doubted that she would have seen the unhappiness, the tired expression, and most disturbing of all, the sense of acceptance of defeat that he had displayed for that split second.

"Kate is fine. Everyone is fine." His voice was soft as he turned back on the charm. "Another glass of wine?"

Martha continued her visual examination of him, looking deep into his eyes. He had just refreshed her glass of wine, how could he have forgotten? Richard's defenses were up, even if no apparent traces of his true feelings were left on his face.

Apparently, Martha Rodgers was not the only talented actor in their family.

Martha knew that she had seen this hurt once before, some months earlier. The cause then of her son's suffering had been Kate: Martha was pretty sure that Kate was again the reason behind Richard's recent manic writing phase. No matter how productive it had been, no matter how financially rewarding it would prove to be for the writer and thus for his family, Martha ached knowing that her Richard was living in pain.

She also knew that he would not discuss it until he was good and ready. Both her son and her granddaughter had inherited the Rodgers stubborn streak. And, Martha knew that when Richard was finally ready to talk about it, he knew that his mother would gladly listen. He may not want her counsel, but if he did ask for it, she would gently offer it. After all, it had taken him almost three years to acknowledge the fact that he had fallen in love with Kate Beckett; and, Martha thought, he had finally, finally accepted that reality unto himself. Perhaps too late, but he understood the depth of his feelings, of his undying devotion, toward one NYPD Detective Katherine Beckett.

And, now, based on the hurt on his face that he was trying to hide, it was maybe too late for him to act on those feelings.

Martha smiled at her son, and released his hand from between hers. "I'm glad to hear that," is all she said, knowing that Richard would understand her verbal shorthand.

She looked at his smile to her. It was that special smile that he had first displayed when he had been four and had drawn her a special birthday card. She had been working, acting in a play the evening of her birthday, and her young son had fallen asleep by the time his single mother had returned from the theatre, his special card on the kitchen table of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, next to the messy peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner he had made especially for her.

Despite having been wined and dined earlier that evening by some generous man (and having done a few other things in appreciation), Martha had eaten that sandwich that night, and she still had that card. Despite whatever personal trials she and her son had experienced together over the next thirty-five years, Martha had always made sure that that card was exactly where it should be, on the bottom of the drawer where she kept her collection of opera gloves.

She smiled again at the remarkable man that that shy, fatherless little boy had become as she took another sip of wine. Her Richard had grown from a rootless, troubled youth, constantly in trouble, until he realized that his creativity was his special talent and not something to be hidden or to be ashamed of. He had been able to channel his unlimited creativity into his writing, with his first novel becoming a best seller, published while he was still in college. Richard Edgar Castle, the name he had decided upon after determining "Richard Alexander Rodgers" would not look overly impressive on a book jacket, had followed that first acclaimed New York Times best seller with an additional twenty-five novels to date, including his recent Nikki Heat series, the most successful series of all of his books. Hollywood was filming the first of that series at this very moment; his once bright future had developed into a supernova. For two people that had lived out of suitcases and one step ahead of the debt collectors for almost twenty years, Richard Castle had taken his mother into his home after her latest husband had absconded with her retirement savings. Along with his daughter from his first marriage, they were not exactly the image of a conventional family, but the love they shared was real.

Yes, something had transpired in these past few days, something big. It had upended Castle's existence. He no longer waited for Beckett's phone calls at all hours of the day (and night) to run and play Pseudo Policeman. And, until he was ready to tell his mother what had happened to so rock his world, she would simply wait for him to include her, and they would face whatever it was together, as they had so many times in the past.

However, other behaviors were soon evident to Martha, in addition to the heightened sense of family. Whatever that "event" had been, plus the resulting factors, were proving to just be the start of Castle's mounting psychological disturbances.

At first, Martha was please that her son had managed to conquer whatever had been previously blocking his ability to write. The chapters of whatever he was now composing on his word processor flowed like notes from a Bach cantata. The man was writing. Endlessly. He sat down in his office exactly at six in the morning, armed with a large pot of coffee (and several aspirin), printing page after page of drafts of entire chapters, and then edited and revised until almost noon. Exactly at 12:15, he would e-mail the attachments to his publisher, Gina (who was also his second ex-wife, not one of Martha's favorite people), for her review. Immediately afterward, he would make himself a small sandwich or a bowl of cereal, brew another pot of coffee, and get to work typing out the next chapter or chapters. At exactly 5:00, he would save his work, join his family at the dinner table at precisely 5:30 PM for a quick bite (or, more often, just a glass of wine, as he questioned them on their day) and then take a quick shower, change, and head out for the evening.

It was immediately apparent to both Alexis and Martha that he was staying out all night. This was the same modus operandi that he had employed some five years ago while he was writing his highly successful Derek Storm series. Martha knew that her son was not happy. Yes, he was creative and writing with a larger fury than he had written in years, but there was something in his eyes, something lacking in his enjoyment of life, and as his mother, she knew that some aspect of his life has gone very, very wrong.

Every morning, seven days a week, he would be back in his office by 5:00 AM, reviewing the changes requested by Gina, and the days would begin again, running into one another. The man was existing on coffee, toast, scrambled eggs, Chinese take-out, and an occasional waffle (which he actually made on weekends for Alexis; he also made Bloody Marys for his mother on Sundays, but that was another story).

After four days of the writing marathon, Alexis remarked to her grandmother that this had been the longest period of time in which her father had not made a reference to his "muse", Detective Kate Beckett, since that previous summer.

By the second week, when Chinese take-out had been supplanted by Italian take-out (there was only so much sweet and sour pork that one family could manage to consume), it was apparent to Martha Rodgers that Richard Castle no longer felt compelled to return to the 12th Precinct and follow at the heels of Detective Beckett.

And, what was more worrisome to her was that Kate Beckett hadn't phoned her son. As Martha thought back on it, in that same time period, neither had anyone else from NYPD's 12th precinct called. Martha had enjoyed her time with Detectives Esposito and Ryan, Captain Montgomery, and especially with Kate Beckett, be it a game of poker or a holiday party, but it was as if all ties had been abruptly severed by those her son had indicated to her were his closest friends, friends that he had spent every possible minute with for almost the past three years.

Martha had tried to wait up for her son on multiple occasions, but she had always either fallen asleep on the downstairs couch, or had performed her own "walk of shame" after her son's return in the wee hours of the morning. When Richard's office door was closed, it was his indication that he didn't want to be disrupted. Alexis could sometimes violate his privacy, but something was telling Martha that this was not the time to test his patience with her.

It wasn't until Martha had managed to "borrow" her son's cell phone from his office during his lunch break one day that she had found all calls from those individuals and from the station had been blocked.

They weren't avoiding Rick: Her son was avoiding them.

Martha realized that she needed to turn to her secret weapon: Alexis.

Alexis knew not to ask her Dad outright as to what had transpired between him and Detective Beckett. She had been surprised enough when, last week, her father had presented her with the full application for admission to Oxford. At first she had wanted to turn him down, thinking that it would be too far of a distance from her Dad (not to add that it was too far a distance from Ashley), but her father reminded her how Oxford had previously been Alexis' first choice. Rick then admitted to his daughter that he had been selfish to try to talk her out of it, and he had had since reconsidered his position, and if his little girl wanted Oxford, he would support her in every way. He had even arranged for three renown British subjects (including one Lord, one Dame, and one mere Order of the British Empire Knight) to write glowing endorsements in support of her application. As a final gesture, he handed her the signed bank draft in pounds sterling to cover the application fee in full.

It had been Alexis' turn to hug her Dad. Martha kept quiet, until Richard nonchalantly remarked that he had also investigated what it would entail for a somewhat renown American actor to appear in the footlights on the British stage.

Martha should have been ashamed at her delight, but she wasn't. It wasn't until later that evening that she realized how much research, time, and expense her son had invested in securing her the necessary paperwork to enable her to relocate to England along with him and Alexis.

That was when the sirens, that had merely been warning bells, started to sound their alert. This had been in the planning stages for longer than she had known.

What had really transpired on that "event" day? And, more importantly, what had happened between her son and Kate Beckett?

* * *

Despite her best investigational techniques, for the next four weeks, Richard Castle proved impervious to Martha's questioning. Prior to this, Martha had known that it was just a matter of time before she would get the truth out of her son. Unfortunately, Richard Castle was proving to be as stubborn as his mother, much to Martha's chagrin. He would change the subject every time Martha had brought up any topic related to his NYPD experiences. Indeed, he even changed the subject when Martha asked Alexis to find out the details from her father.

Martha knew that, somehow, the new behaviors, the return to the mindless partying all night while writing all day, involved a certain brunette NYPD detective.

Martha's suspicions were proven true when Gina appeared at the loft's front door near the conclusion of Week Five, with a large bottle of champagne in appreciation for Richard having beaten the submission deadline for the next Nikki Heat book.

Martha and Alexis had only looked at one another dumbfounded. Richard Castle had turned in a manuscript _BEFORE_ a stated deadline? Clearly, this was more serious than they had suspected.

Both Martha and Alexis had instantly made the necessary arrangements to stay elsewhere that evening, leaving Gina and Richard alone in the loft, no questions asked. Yet that following morning, their was (thankfully) no trace of Gina, and the author was again closed up in his office madly typing away on his laptop. It was obvious to both redheads that Richard Castle was now working on the fourth and possible final volume of his Nikki Heat series. After the delivery of this fourth book, Castle would have fulfilled his obligation to his publisher, Black Pawn, and Nikki could be retired, or forgotten, or married off, or put out to pasture, or even shot.

All that Martha knew was that Richard was typing away, editing like a maniac, and Alexis had completed her Oxford application.

Richard had taken off an hour that morning to walk to the Grand Central post office and personally see to the mailing of Alexis' application to Oxford. In less than fifty minutes, he had returned, made another pot of coffee, and again sequestered himself in his office deciding Nikki's eventual fate.

Martha continued to try to break through her son's defenses. In the short time he had left the loft to handle Alexis' application, Martha had discovered two legal pads of numbered items written by Richard that included his successful hiring of a real estate broker in England (for the purchase of a three bedroom flat in London [not to mention a separate transaction for a long-term rental of a two bedroom cottage just outside of Stratford for what he was terming "holiday usage"]), notations on various agents in an attempt to select one to manage the sale of his Broome Street loft (which came as a total surprise to Martha; his "relocation" of the family was going to be permanent, Richard Castle was planning on becoming an expatriate), and notations with his brokers on the paperwork required to transfer all of his investments and accounts to British firms. He had also made the arrangements to ship his beloved Ferrari, and was in the middle of investigating the most secure way to transport his books and furnishings to their new home, when and where ever that would occur.

Martha was scared. Richard had always hated change. Suddenly, it was as if he couldn't get away from New York City, from America, and perhaps from Kate Beckett, quickly enough.

Martha put back the legal pads, trying to match their present location to where she had originally found them.

Her son might be an acclaimed mystery novelist, but she was his mother. She outranked him. And she was determined to find out what exactly had happened to her boy.


End file.
